


Hell's Bells by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Usage, Everything happens to Draco, F/M, Good-natured fun, Humour, Infidelity, Mentions of anatomy, Mildly Dubious Consent, Potion usage, Sexual Situations, Snark, Trope Sporkage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the worst news a father could receive: his son was marrying his worst enemy's daughter.</p><p>But for Draco Malfoy, being in the role of the reasonable parent was in itself a debacle as he tried to make the best of a bad situation. But when circumstances forced him to spend more time than he ever cared to with the most irritating Mudblood on the planet, he constantly questioned his sanity, as well as that of his son.</p><p>However, Draco might have come to realise that things change, as well as people. Is Hermione Granger Weasley the mad bint he remembered, or were they both a little different this time around?</p><p> </p><p>A Dra-Comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re _what?_ ”

Fervently hoping that he had misunderstood, Draco waited for his son to re-state his disturbing declaration.

“I’m marrying Lily Potter.” Scorpius crossed his arms and dared his father to refute. “I told you we were dating and that I liked her, so you really shouldn’t be so shocked.”

“I thought you meant she was a good shag!” Draco downed his bourbon and wished the burn would remove his aggravation with his situation from his mind. “How was I supposed to know you meant you _actually_ fancied her?”

Scorpius laughed incredulously. “I said — and I quote — ‘I’m seeing Lily Potter, and I think I’m in love with her’. How the hell else do you want me to spell it out, Dad?”

Draco couldn’t believe this was happening. The only thought more irritating than the idea of his son mingling with Potter and his flock of ginger Mudblood lovers was the possibility of him procreating with one of them. It was just as well that his own father was already dead, or this would have killed him all over again, though his mother wasn’t likely to appreciate the idea much, either.

But he had told Scorpius in some inexplicable moment of weakness that he was free to marry whomever he liked. Draco didn’t really mean it when he said it, but he thought he had at the time. Then again, he hadn’t even considered the idea that his son would want to marry into such an unsavoury element. Both he and Astoria had worked hard to instil their son with a modicum of social responsibility, but that had obviously not been enough to keep this borderline catastrophe from happening.

Resigned by his own concession, Draco sighed. “Fine. Just... _you_ tell your mother, not me.”

“I already did,” Scorpius said, seemingly enjoying Draco’s annoyance. “She’s thrilled that she’ll get grandchildren.”

“Ugh, don’t say that!” Draco said, shuddering inwardly at the thought of a bunch of red-headed urchins shattering the comfortable silence of Malfoy Manor.

Shaking his head, Scorpius said, “Get used to it, Dad. I love Lily, and that’s not going to change. Eventually, you’re going to have to make peace with it, and you might want to try sooner rather than later.”

Not liking the sound of that, Draco warily asked, “Why is that?”

“We set a date,” Scorpius said. “We’ve decided on the twenty-eighth of June.”

“But that’s in a _month!_ You can’t plan a wedding in a _month_. Are you bloody mad?” His indignation may or may not have been due to desperation to stop the situation and dismay at its imminence rather than the logistics of planning the affair in that span of time, but nevertheless, it made him feel powerless in the situation. He couldn’t even refute the warning signs that Scorpius had pointed out, which made him come to one nauseating conclusion: this was really happening.

 

 

“Do I really have to be here?” Draco asked as he anxiously sat with Astoria and Scorpius, waiting for the bride and her parents to meet them for a planning discussion.

Scorpius frowned. “Dad, you can’t keep being like this. The Potters are reasonable people, and I don’t want things to start off on the wrong foot.”

“Have you _met_ them?” Draco grumbled as he drank his tea too quickly, scalding his tongue. When he stole his wife’s water to assuage the pain, she simply endowed him with a look that oozed ‘well, that’s what you get’. He wasn’t going to get any support against this mad venture from her, either, if he couldn’t even get sympathy for almost inadvertently melting his own face. Already feeling a headache coming on, Draco glanced at his watch. “They’re late.”

Glaring at her husband, Astoria said, “Draco, it’s five minutes. Your world isn’t going to end if you have to wait an extra five minutes.”

_So you say_ , he wanted so badly to retort before he thought better of it. Astoria wasn’t a truly nasty woman, but she had a vindictive streak a mile wide, and if she thought he was putting a damper on her precious baby boy’s happiness, her retribution would be quick and it would be painful, like an angry mother Hippogryff without the beak.

Another tense five minutes passed before someone finally rushed to their table, breathless from running none too gracefully through the restaurant. It was Lily, but she didn’t have her parents in tow. It was the last person he had ever expected to see. “Granger.”

“Draco,” Hermione acknowledged. “Harry and Ginny send their regrets, but —”

Suspecting an upcoming lie, Draco asked, “So, Granger, what brings you here instead of Potter and _Mrs_ Boy-Who-Lived?” Hermione averted her eyes, cheeks red with embarrassment, and Draco enjoyed her discomfiture immensely. If he was stuck there, the least he could do was make someone half as miserable as he was.

Finally, Hermione answered, “Well, Harry has work obligations that he can’t get out of, and Ginny is busy covering the Eastern European Quidditch League finals.”

“In other words,” Draco said smugly as he opened his menu, “another hateful, spiteful, disgruntled Weasley. Got it.”

The foot that connected with his shin could have either come from his wife or from Lily, though he doubted the latter had even heard him. His sideways glance at Astoria confirmed his suspicion. Her pointed look told him all he needed to know about what would happen if he continued this particular path, so he decided to nurse the glass of water in front of him, wishing all the while that it was some form of liquor.

Pulling out a giant folder, Hermione started flipping through it. Inside were pictures of various congregation halls and even a few churches, along with statistics about seating capacity, accessibility, and practicality in terms of Muggle repelling. Draco was both impressed and irritated by the thoroughness of the research, but after twenty minutes of solid disagreement, the constant over-analysis between Hermione and Astoria, and the feeling that his presence was completely unnecessary grated on his nerves. With a sigh of frustration, he said, “Just have the wedding at Malfoy Manor so we don’t have to worry about any of this.”

The moment that statement left his mouth, Draco realised his gaffe, but Astoria apparently wasn’t up on her war history. She smiled and said, “That’s a brilliant idea, Draco! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Lily, however, must have been more aware of the situation. When she saw her aunt blanch, she said, “That might not work out so well. Not everyone in my family would be, er, comfortable with going there.”

Astoria must have taken the comment as an insult and stood up abruptly before leaning forward toward Lily. “Are you implying that we’re not _your_ type of people? Are we not good enough for you?”

“Mother, sit down!” Scorpius snapped. “That’s ridiculous. You must have misheard —”

“I did no such thing, and you know it.” Her face full of revulsion, Astoria turned back to Lily and said, “I knew this was a mistake, but I want my son to be happy. How he thinks that will happen with rabble like you, I don’t know, but I refuse to be a part of this. You Muggle lovers call us pure-bloods judgmental, but look at you, maligning Scorpius’s family home!”

Draco stared at his wife, completely gobsmacked at her outburst. He felt like he should have interjected, but what he could possibly say to diffuse the tension rather than exacerbate it eluded him. The entire time they’d been married, he never recalled her being so hostile. Granted, he’d neither known nor cared what her societal views were, but she’d never acted so ill-tempered toward anyone before.

When Astoria stormed out, everyone at the table gaped at the door that the maître-d barely had enough time to open for her abrupt exit. Lily looked ready to rip her future mother-in-law’s hair out, Scorpius looked embarrassed, but Hermione was biting her lip. Draco could see how hard she was trying not to think about what had happened at Malfoy Manor decades before, memories that she had no doubt tried to suppress as much as he had, and that was a battle she was losing.

Scorpius was the first to break the silence. Taking Lily’s hand, he stood and said, “I’m going to pay the cheque and take Lily home. I’ll see you later then?” When Draco nodded absently, the young couple left as quickly as was politely possible.

Left alone with Hermione, Draco wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He knew they were thinking about the same thing, and mentioning it was a disaster waiting to happen, but an urge beyond even his own understanding took over him. “Listen, er, Granger,” he started before amending, “Hermione.” Her name felt strange on his lips until he considered the fact that he had never once said it. She had always been ‘Granger’ or ‘Mudblood’ to him, but never ‘Hermione’.

Hermione had no doubt noticed the awkward syllables, as well. She eyed him suspiciously before settling her gaze once again on her untouched drink, sending a surge of unwanted sympathy through Draco. “She didn’t know,” he blurted. “I never told her about what happened that night, and since it’s not really in the public record…”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said flatly. “This is about Lily and Scorpius, not me. I just wanted to help my niece until her mother could get back, but it’s clearly not working out.” Gathering her folder of pictures, Hermione said, “I’ll just go. Sorry to disturb your lunch.”

Before Draco could even process what she had just said, Hermione was gone. It was that moment that the serving staff decided to finally deliver the food they’d ordered, only to find all but one of the dining party gone and the remaining attendee with a severe lack of appetite.

 

 

He should have known that the disastrous lunch wouldn’t be the end of the Great Wedding Fiasco, and Draco wasn’t wrong in this assumption. Astoria said very emphatically that she would have no part in the whole business and that she would publically condemn the marriage. As if that wasn’t bad enough, later that very afternoon, Scorpius stormed into the conservatory where Draco had thought he wouldn’t be found, and the younger Malfoy was furious.

“How could you let her do that?” Scorpius snapped. “It took all bloody afternoon to convince Lily that you both don’t hate her and won’t sabotage the wedding. Then her dad came home, and _that_ didn’t improve the situation.”

It annoyed Draco that this had somehow become his fault and not Astoria’s. All he had done was say _one_ thing without thinking, and suddenly he was the prat who unleashed Hurricane Astoria upon his son’s wedding plans. Had he not been cooperative? Had he not gone along with this preposterous idea with minimal complaint? Why was _he_ the villain? Defensively, Draco said, “I’m not your mother’s chaperon, Scorpius. How was I supposed to know she’d do that to someone she just met?”

Scorpius sighed. “I know.” Dejectedly leaning against the wall, he said, “You didn’t mean to upset anyone. Lily told me what happened to her aunt, and…”

Draco was glad Scorpius didn’t vocalise whatever thought had been on the tip of his tongue. Chances were that it would have made him look like a complete arse, and he’d already filled his quota for that particular trait for the day. As much as he was loath to admit it, the idea of Lily becoming his daughter-in-law had become less repugnant as he saw her interact with Scorpius. They obviously loved one another, and despite her rather lamentable heritage, she was… nice. Draco cringed inwardly at his own choice of adjective, but he really hadn’t noticed anything about her that annoyed him. Worse yet, he had the feeling that down the line, he could even begin to _like_ her.

Groaning, Draco said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Scorpius grinned, which only served to further nauseate Draco. “Thanks, Dad.” Bounding toward the door, he said, “I’ll be back later. I promised Lily’s dad that I would sit down with him and have a little talk.” The nervousness in Scorpius’s voice was apparent, which almost made Draco feel vindicated. He could only hope that Potter would do them all a favour and squash all of this wedding nonsense.

Alone with his promise, Draco pulled out quill and parchment and set out to do something he thought he would never do: compose a letter intended for Hermione. It felt so bizarre that he feared his owl would look at him oddly and not bother delivering the message. But his son had never asked him for anything more than the trivial desires of boyhood, and he had vowed to himself to make his son happier than his own father had made him. If that meant allowing this… unfortunate match-up happen and conspiring with possibly the most annoying person alive to do it, then he would do it.

It was proving harder than he’d thought, though. Quill poised and ready to write, Draco was already losing his resolve.  Before he could talk himself out of it, he scribbled down a salutation, only to frown at the solitary word. Granger. That wasn’t even her name anymore, though he suspected she would still answer to it. With a grunt of frustration, he scribbled out that word and replaced it with the next applicable term — Weasley. Damn. That wouldn’t do, either, as there was the offhand chance that the message would reach the wrong recipient and put him face to face with her even more repugnant husband.

His hand positively tingling in distaste, he scratched out his last attempt and amended it. _Hermione_. It felt almost dirty being civilised toward her, but he didn’t know the first thing about wedding planning. For his own ceremony, his mother had taken care of everything along with Astoria and her mum. He wasn’t even sure where one would go to get invitations made. And it was with a sigh that he penned the rest of the letter.

_Hermione,_

_It is my hope that you are still interested in assisting with the wedding plans. If this is the case, please meet me at Twilfitt and Tattings this Thursday at four. Scorpius has a robe fitting scheduled._

_-DM_

He frowned at the words on the page. They didn’t sound like him at all, and Hermione wasn’t likely to even believe he wrote them at all. It was too… nice. He had never respectfully requested anything in his life, and he wasn’t likely to start with Hermione bloody Granger. With an aggravated grunt, he balled up the paper and chucked it at the fire. _That_ fiasco of a note wouldn’t be seeing the light of day.

_Meet me at Twilfitt’s and Tatting’s, Thursday at four._

_-DM_

Much better. He sounded far more like himself and less like a mewling sot. Armed with that assurance, he sent the letter off with his owl, Polaris, and decided that his efforts were to be rewarded with a very large glass of spirits — the top shelf, finest one could buy spirits.


	2. Hell's Bells by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor

Draco wasn’t sure if he’d actually expected Hermione to show up when he all but commanded her to do so, but sure enough, at five minutes before the specified time, she strolled into Twilfitt’s and Tatting’s with her ever-present Book of Stuff. However, instead of acknowledging him in the slightest, she headed straight to the reception desk to speak quickly and animatedly with the witch minding the shop. Even the small bits of the conversation he did catch, he didn’t understand, so it was no big loss. It did irk him that she had the nerve to ignore him, despite the fact that he would likely have been as useless as fur on a dragon.

Finally, Hermione deigned to clue him in. “Oh, I was just talking to Miss Stevens here about Lily’s dress. Since she and Scorpius are meeting with the caterer and we’re already here, Lily asked me to stand in for her fitting.”

“But you’re fatter than she is,” Draco blurted. Once the words left his mouth, his hand slid into his pocket and gripped his wand, just in case Hermione got the notion to hex him.

However, that curse never came. Instead, she whispered, “She’s going to, er, need a bigger dress when the wedding comes.”

“What is she going to do — hold up Honeydukes and make herself look like a whale before the so-called most important day of her life?” Whatever had possessed him to say that, Draco had no idea, but his survival instinct wanted to slap him silly before Hermione did.

He had already steeled himself to the fist ploughing into his forearm. “Are you saying I look like a whale?” Not waiting for an answer, she hit him again, harder this time and in the exact same spot, which caused involuntary tears to spring to Draco’s eyes. “Any other opinions on my figure?”

“No,” Draco wheezed as he gingerly rubbed the bruising flesh on his arm. To himself, he grumbled, “Bloody madwoman.”

“I heard that,” Hermione said, her expression scathing. When he still didn’t meet her eyes, she said, “Anyway, I’ll be in the other room with Madam Tatting while you finish your business with Miss Stevens.” With that, she turned on her heel and left Draco alone with the dire-looking receptionist to figure out what was going on.

“Mr Malfoy,” Miss Stevens said, shaking him out of his stupor. “If I could get you to sign right here for the automatic withdrawal from your Gringotts account for your son’s couture.” She pushed a sheet of parchment toward him with the tiniest writing he’d ever seen and a large, blank line at the bottom for his signature. Handing him a self-inking quill, she said, “At the bottom, please.”

Her furtive demeanour made Draco suspicious, which caused him to set down the quill and peruse the document more closely. Despite the miniscule text, it didn’t take long for his eyes to rest on the cause. “A thousand Galleons for a set of robes! On what planet is that even… did you sew _gold_ into the lining?”

Flushing, Miss Stevens said, “He and his young lady really took a fancy to a particular fabric. I tried to tell them it was sixty per metre, but I don’t think they were, er, paying all that much attention to me.”

“Sixty per metre? What in the name of Merlin could possibly cost that much?”

Pulling out her sample book, Miss Stevens flipped to the very back page. She set it on the counter and pointed to a black, shimmering fabric. “It’s a Chinese silk, and every tenth thread is pure silver from a specific American mine.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco said, “And what’s so damned special about _this_ sort of silver?”

“In the area around the mine, there is an indigenous breed of wild unicorns, and their urine has a scintillation effect on the silver buried below. It also becomes impervious to all impurity.”

Incredulity didn’t begin to encompass what Draco was feeling. “Are you telling me that you’re charging sixty Galleons per metre for bloody _unicorn piss_?” Somehow, saying it out loud caused the idea to sink in even further, and he wiped his fingers off on his trousers where he had stroked the fabric. Then he took the finance contract and tore it in half. “I’m not paying for that.”

As Miss Stevens sputtered behind him, Draco stalked into the room where Hermione was closeted with Madam Tatting. “Granger, get your things. We’re leaving.”

Her subsequent gasp coincided with Draco’s realisation that she was standing in the centre of the room, wearing a pinned-together dress that clung tightly to her hips and bosom, the latter not completely covered by the bodice. He was fairly certain he could see more of her goods than were covered, but it was no time to stare. Looking pointedly over her shoulder to keep his gaze from drifting lower, he grabbed her hand and pulled.

From his own visits to the tailor, Draco should have remembered the step stool, but his current state of mind overthrew his better judgment. It didn’t take long for Hermione’s body to collide with his own and send them both crashing to the floor. She landed solidly on his chest and knocked the air right out of his lungs.

Incognisant of his discomfort, Hermione narrowed her eyes and hissed, “What are you doing? What if the dress ripped!”

“I don’t care,” he gasped as loudly as he could. “We’re going elsewhere.” Still unable to draw a full breath, he pushed her back so he could inhale, but the bulk of the dress’s train put uncomfortable pressure on a rather sensitive spot in his lap. “Get off!” he squeaked.

His face scrunched in pain must have told Hermione what ailed him; she scrambled off of her ludicrous perch and regained her feet. Bending down, she offered her hand to help him up, as well. Draco decided that she had filled her quota of inflicting physical injury on him and accepted. Once he was standing again, he dusted off the tiny particles of thread that had clung to him whilst on the floor and reiterated, “Now, we’re leaving.”

Madam Tatting, who had not said a word through the entire exchange, spoke up. “I beg your pardon, Mr Malfoy! We’ve worked extensively to get the materials for both your son’s and your future daughter-in-law’s wedding garments. It’s hardly appropriate to change your mind now.”

“You’re talking about appropriate?” Draco sneered. “You’re lecturing me on appropriate when that bloody vulture out there —” he angrily gestured toward the lobby, where Miss Stevens likely was, “— to bully a couple of kids into buying unicorn piss fabric for sixty sodding Galleons per yard. I’m not paying a hundred for that damned thing, let alone a thousand, so yes, we’re leaving.” Without bothering to see if Hermione was following, Draco swished his cloak as imperiously as he could and walked out.

From behind him, he could hear hurried footsteps, which he imagined was Madam Tatting, desperate not to lose one of her oldest and most lucrative accounts. Spinning around, he was surprised to see Hermione, whom he had assumed would’ve been busy removing the dress she was still wearing. “Shouldn’t you be putting your own clothes back on, Granger?”

“Draco, you can’t do that! Scorpius and Lily signed a promise of payment contract, so if nobody pays for the order, then both of them could end up in debtor’s court.”

If Draco had had any delusions that he’d raised his son to be a shrewd man of finance, they were summarily slain right there. With Lily, he could just blame Potter and his terrible parenting, but he’d thought Scorpius wasn’t an idiot — especially a thousand-Galleon idiot. But if what Hermione said was true, and he didn’t get the vibe that she was lying, then he was indeed stuck with the bill.

With a grunt of annoyance, he started back into the building and cornered Miss Stevens. “If I ever set foot in this place after today, it will be to tell you I’ll never do so again. Consider that next time you try to con kids into spending a thousand Galleons on something they’ll only wear once.” He picked up the remnants of the contract she’d presented earlier, as well as the discarded quill, and scribbled his name at the bottom. He folded it in half and flung it in the direction of Miss Stevens before leaving again.

Outside, Hermione was pacing, despite garnering quite a bit of attention due to her attire, and when she spotted him, she descended upon him in fine Granger fashion. “You can’t just leave! Lily’s going to get into trouble, and your son’s credit will be murdered!”

“Calm down, woman!” Draco said, the sound of her harping drilling into his skull. “I paid for it. I couldn’t really afford it, but I paid for it.” He rubbed his temples. “How am I supposed to tell Astoria?” That thought alone launched his headache into a full blown cranial eruption. He was going to be a dead man.

Hermione smiled tightly and hesitantly patted his shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Just sit tight.”

Before he could make a snide comment about the fact that he was standing, Hermione had already disappeared back into the dress shop. True to her word, she was back in less than five minutes, wearing her own clothing and toting both her purse and the Book of Stuff. Tugging on his arm, she said, “Come on, we’ll get some coffee and focus on something else.”

Draco found himself transplanted to the Leaky Cauldron before he knew it. They were seated in a private room near the kitchens, but as soon as the door closed, it was completely silent. Looking around in surprise, he said, “I didn’t know this room existed, and I’ve been coming to the Cauldron for decades.”

“This was used by the Order during the first war and then by Dumbledore’s Army for meetings. Hannah was kind enough to lend it to me, but she was not enthused when I told her I’d be here with you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Draco said wryly. “Her and Fatbottom never did take a shine to me.”

Her expression could have easily made a lesser man wither in fear. “ _Neville_ actually put in a good word for you, since Scorpius was one of his favourite students. At least one of you grew up.”

“Oh, he grew all right,” Draco said before an elbow planted itself in his side. Rubbing the site of what would likely be his second bruise inflicted by Hermione that day, he grumbled, “Okay, I’m sorry. Just stop hitting me.”

As hostilities seemed to have ceased, both sat at the large table. Hermione sat at the head, and Draco at her immediate right, with the book open between them. She had turned to a page containing appointment dates, one of which was for a half hour from then, but it was scheduled for their present location. He was confused until he saw the parenthetical note beside the time and place: wine tasting.

“I thought the caterers provided the wine?” he asked, trying futilely to recall details from his own wedding, to which he had never paid close attention.

Nodding, Hermione said, “They do, but they have a contract with Hannah and Neville as their distributers. We’re here to pick _what_ they’ll distribute.”

Annoyed that yet another large sum of his money was going to someone he didn’t particularly like, Draco said, “Fine. But what is there to choose? Just buy a dozen casks of standard champagne for the guests and a case of something nice for the dais.”

The idea seemed to shock Hermione. “You can’t do that, it’s rude!”

_Not if they don’t know about it._ “Well, I’m not drinking shite, but I’m not paying a fortune for everyone else to drink the best, so I’m not sure what else you want from me.”

“Harry’s paying for the catering,” Hermione said after a dismissive scoff. “Now, if you’re done acting like a child, can we please get on with this?”

A mere minute later, a tray arrived with twelve tiny wine glasses, which were grouped into twos. On the tray beneath the glasses, there were numbers, along with boxes for them to tick either ‘Yes’, ‘No’, or ‘Maybe’. After setting that down, Hannah came back in with two tumblers and a large pitcher of water. Draco felt a strong urge to mock the entire scene, but with the memory of the fresh bruise percolating on his arm, he declined.

Starting on Number One, Hermione set a glass in front of Draco, as well as one in front of herself. He watched in amusement as she first inhaled the scent before taking the slightest of sips. Her face scrunched up, the way she had done in school when she was thinking of an answer. However, in watching her reaction, he neglected to take a drink of his own. Realising this, he eyed the miniature goblet and downed the contents.

Draco could feel her staring at him, waiting for his analysis, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. Luckily for him, she couldn’t keep quiet for more than a minute. “I like the bouquet. It’s very dry, but it has a markedly fruity flavour.”

“Tastes like mouldy bread,” Draco said, his nose curling at the horrid aftertaste that had populated his taste buds. Pouring himself some water, he took a great gulp and swished it around in his mouth to erase the remnants of the wine. “Definitely not.”

Casting him a sidelong glance, Hermione tapped her wand on the ‘No’ box and then doled out the next selection. Again, she sniffed the wine and then slowly drank. “This is a lot sweeter, but the flavour is not very rich.”

This time, Draco took her cue and only drank a little. Whatever this one was, it didn’t have that rank, yeasty taste that the first one did, at least not nearly as much. “It doesn’t make me want to vomit. I’ll say maybe.”

Nodding, Hermione ticked ‘Maybe’ beside number two and served the next round. Getting the hang of the process, Draco didn’t wait for Hermione’s unintelligible analysis before taking a sip. The assault on his taste buds was swift and potent, and it didn’t take long until he sent the foul liquid back into its vessel. “Tastes like troll sweat.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Hermione said as she quickly drank water, just as Draco had the first time. “Next.”

The fourth wine was a rather odd combination. It smelled terrible, but it was very smooth, like well-aged Firewhiskey. Draco nodded to himself in approval. “I like this one,” he said. “Smells like a goblin’s backside, but it doesn’t have that taste of something gone bad.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “I thought it was rather weak, even a bit bland.”

“Well, considering I hate wine, I’m reasonably satisfied with it.” And Draco was being completely honest. He had always disliked wine, even though appreciation of it had always been one of his mother’s greatest joys.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Shrugging, Draco said, “Not my wedding.” He finished the rest of his glass and momentarily toyed with the idea of drinking Hermione’s, too. Thinking better of it, he took the initiative and served up the next batch, which he didn’t care for. The last round was another ‘Maybe’.

Tallying up their judgments, there were two ‘Maybe’ and one ‘Yes’, and Hermione briefly left the room. When she returned, she had two normal sized goblets and three bottles, which Draco presumed held each of their selected wines. This time, he could see which ones were which, even if he had no idea what any of it meant. He picked up one and sounded it out. “Zinfa… zinfandel. Sounds dangerous.”

“That was the one you liked. I didn’t really like it, but your opinion counts, too.”

The gesture was unexpected. Clearly, she knew far more about wine than he did, so letting him have any say in the final decision whatsoever was a surprise to him. He gave her a slight smile of appreciation, which probably never would’ve come to pass without the influence of alcohol, however slight. She returned the gesture as she poured two more glasses, starting with Draco’s favoured zinfandel.

Taking a long draught from his cup, Draco enjoyed the warm tingle that settled in his belly. He thought he could get used to drinking this particular wine, even if the rest of it could go to hell. He still preferred liquor, but in a pinch, this would do. “This is all right,” he mused aloud.

Hermione giggled, which caught his attention immediately. He’d never associated her with that sound. “Just so you know,” she said, “that’s the cheap one. The one you wanted to serve to the guests.”

“I have good taste,” he said as he poured himself a fresh glass of the same. “And if you want everyone to have the same, I wouldn’t mind this at all.” He drained half the glass and smacked his lips in appreciation. “I could get used to this.”

Hermione doled out a fresh glass and raised it slightly. “I still like this one, but I could do the zinfandel if you’re really that attached to it.”

He clanked his glass against hers, and they both drank. And drank some more. It didn’t take long before all three bottles were empty, and Draco was finding it difficult to discern between them. All he knew was that he had one hell of a buzz going on and he didn’t want it to stop. More shocking, though, was that Hermione was far more fun whilst drinking.

When their conversation drifted to the incident at the dress shop, Draco had finally drunk enough to brave asking, “Why did Lily have you do her fitting? Don’t tell me it’s because you’re the same size.” He used his hands to mime having breasts. “You’re a bit larger in that area.”

Blushing furiously, likely a mixture of wine and embarrassment, Hermione said, “Oh, that’s because Lily’s pregnant.” Her hand flew over her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything!”

In his slightly inebriated state, Draco didn’t fully comprehend what she’d said. Instead, he replied, “But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. They’re very nice.”

Taking a very long drink, Hermione said, “Oh! Thank you… I think.”

“Do you always do that?” he asked, not even sure if he could describe what ‘it’ was.

“Do what?”

“You’re kind of cute when you blush.”

Whether it was madness, drunkenness, or Stupidity Serum brewed into the wine, he had no idea, but he closed the short distance between their mouths.


	3. Chapter 1

When Draco leant back, an odd sort of quiet languished between them. He didn’t _dare_ look at Hermione; if anything, he wanted to melt into a puddle on the floor. He’d done it — kissed the most annoying woman in the world. By all accounts, his lips should’ve been burning right off, burnt by her tainted saliva, but for some reason, he didn’t feel too bothered by it and neither did—

His thought was derailed by her fist colliding solidly with his eye. “ _OW!_ ” Clutching his assaulted flesh, Draco panted, “Merlin’s bloody bollocks, Granger! You hit like a man!”

“Why did you do that?” she shouted. “And the name is _Weasley_. As in _Mrs_ Weasley! As in _DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!_ ”

“I’m sorry!” Draco hissed as he gingerly massaged his already bruising skin. “You’d think after years of snogging _that_ bell-end, you’d be grateful for a decent kiss here and there.”

A gasp of revulsion preceded a heavy strike to his bicep and knocked Draco off balance. “I can’t believe you said that!” she hissed. “He is not a… a…”

Draco smirked when she couldn’t bring herself to repeat what he’d said. “Complete tosser. Has the personality of a retarded Kneazle and not nearly as good-looking. I’m fairly certain I’m referring to that twat you call a husband.”

“You’re foul!”

Lips twitching, Draco said, “In all the right ways.” A feeling of bravado coursed through him, causing him to commit double the fallacy in one night, and he kissed her again, this time a bit more roughly to prove a point. He had no idea what made him do it, perhaps his alcohol tolerance had been woefully overestimated, but he _really_ , really wanted to wipe that disgusted expression right off her face.

This time, when he withdrew, she just blinked rapidly before nearly falling out of her chair. When she wobbily gained her balance and was on her feet, she said, “I’ve got to go.” Then she practically ran from the room, shouting for Hannah the second the door was closed. Chuckling, Draco lolled back his head and called, “Juno!”

Almost instantly, a house elf appeared. “How can Juno help Master Malfoy?”

“Apparate me home. And if you splinch me, you might live to regret it.”

 

 

The sun streaming in through the window felt like a thousand white-hot needles boring into Draco’s brain through his eyelids. He flopped his arm over his face to block out the offensive light, but the moment he stirred, there was a swift slap right on the tender flesh of his arm where Hermione had struck him the night before. He instinctively cringed and burrowed further into the covers to obscure any further assault, which was probably coming from his wife. What he could’ve possibly done to earn Astoria’s ire, he had no idea, but he really didn’t care to find out until his head stopped ringing from his massive hangover.

“Draco, wake up!”

It sure as hell wasn’t Astoria, but what the hell was _she_ doing there? “Gods, Granger, why are you in my bedroom?” he said through the covers over his face.

“We need to talk.”

It was all he could do to keep from groaning, but he was sure doing so would get him hit again. When women wanted to ‘talk’, it was always about feelings and garbage like that, and he couldn’t have cared less if he tried. Well, maybe, but…

His eyes nearly watered, his breath forced out with an _oomph_ , when her hand slapped down hard on his midsection, mere inches away from delicate territory. After a fit of coughing, Draco threw back the duvet and vaulted out of bed. “What the hell do you want, you mad bint?”

Her jaw set, she jabbed her finger into his chest. “We need to set some ground rules.”

Backing away from further physical abuse, Draco said, “For starters, how about you stop hitting me like a bloody maniac!”

“Then don’t kiss me!”

“But you kissed me back, so _don’t_ go pinning it all on me.”

“Oh, so you’re _Saint_ Draco now?” Hermione’s voice was becoming progressively more high-pitched. “That was _completely_ your fault, and if you do it again, I’ll —”

“You’ll _what_?” he sneered, smirking in satisfaction as she opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to respond. “No, I didn’t think so.” Jabbing his finger into her chest like she had just done to him, he hissed, “I’ll not be spoken to like an errant child, and I will _not_ be beaten like an old nag? Do we understand one another, Granger?”

“Weasley.”

Her response threw him. “What?”

“The name is Weasley. Hermione _Weasley_. You will address me properly.”

With a snort, Draco said, “Not likely. I’d like to be able to eat breakfast sometime today. Now, be a good little crazy person and get out of my sight before I hex you.”

“You’re… testy right now.”

Her comment made something inside of him snap. “Testy? _Testy_? You barge into my house — who the hell knows who let you in, anyway — and assault me in my sleep, all the while demanding that I respect your personal space while you pummel me to death! How in the name of Merlin’s twisted knickers am I not supposed to be ‘testy’?”

Instead of contrite, Hermione gave him a tight smile and said, “I can see you’re not quite awake yet, so I’ll, um, see you downstairs. I have a few things I need you to look at.” She turned to leave, but she stopped at the door and added, “Oh, and you, um, have a little, er…” Her eyes drifted down toward his middle, “…issue.”

“Get out!” Draco shouted before grabbing his wand off of the end table and slamming the door in her face. He seethed as he listened to her grumble and stalk down the hallway, just to be sure she’d finally left. He simply couldn’t wrap his brain around her having the raw nerve to accost him in his sleep for something that could’ve waited at least a couple hours, or at least until he’d had a chance to take a headache potion and drink a pot of coffee.

However, he was still curious as to what she’d meant by ‘issue’. Looking down at his midsection, he noticed that part of his right bollock was sticking out the side of his Y-fronts. “Fan-bloody-tastic.”

An hour later, after a lengthy shower and plenty of dawdling to make her pay for her intrusion, Draco came downstairs, properly dressed with everything stowed in the proper undergarments, only to find Hermione and Astoria poring over the omnipresent Book of Stuff. This time, though, they were much friendlier than they were the last time they were together. One of them even _giggled_. Giggled! But when they noticed his entrance, their conversation abruptly ended; it didn’t take much of a stretch to figure out that they were talking about him.

“You two seem rather chummy. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Biting her bottom lip, Hermione said, “I was just consulting with Astoria on her wine preferences. We never did decide between the two you liked, so I was asking her what she thought.”

Draco crossed his arms. “And?”

“And we’re going to go for the one you liked. Apparently —”

“No!” he hissed. “What were you two laughing about?” Draco wasn’t stupid; he knew exactly what they found so amusing, but making her admit it was merely one step in his plan to get her back for earlier.

Judging by Hermione’s lack of ability to articulate and Astoria’s smirk, Draco knew he was right. Feeling slightly vindicated, he pulled out a chair and said, “Now, what were we discussing?”

 

 

**_27 June — Eve of the Wedding Day_ **

“You can’t be serious,” Draco said, desperately hoping he was imagining things. “You can’t break things off _now_! Are you completely mental?”

“Dad, Lily doesn’t want to take my name! How am I supposed to spend my life with someone who doesn’t want every part of who I am?”

Draco snorted. “Oh, please!” He was dangerously close to slapping his son for being a complete pouf about it, even if he did happen to sympathise with his point of view. But he’d tolerated a month of constant exposure to Hermione, so the lad could and _would_ deal with the fact that his new wife’s surname would be Potter, no matter how offensive it was.

Pacing around the study, Scorpius said, “How can you say that? Being a Malfoy means everything to you!”

That statement made Draco pause. Scorpius was right; his name meant more to him than a lot of things. Had Astoria rejected it before their wedding, he probably wouldn’t have married her, either — no matter how much planning went into it. Sighing, he said, “No, you’re right. Just… just give me a minute. I’ll think of something.”

But that ‘something’ was already obvious. He should’ve known that he wouldn’t be shot of Hermione so easily. Even though Lily’s mum had taken over a lot of the wedding planning, she wanted nothing to do with associating with Draco. That left Hermione to be the liaison between the two families.

Scribbling a quick note, Draco sent it to Hermione, hoping to stop this madness before Scorpius paced a hole in the carpet. He didn’t expect a response so quickly, but sure enough, one came only minutes later. However, upon perusal, it appeared as if she had the same idea that he did: imploring the other to do something before it was too late.

_Please talk some sense into Scorpius. Lily is crying her eyes out, and Harry and Ginny are ready to hex him for dumping her._

_-H_

No matter how delicious the thought of annoying Potter and his weasel wife was, Draco knew that Scorpius would be miserable for ages if he broke things off with Lily. And, as much as he was loath to admit it, he actually liked his prospective daughter-in-law for her intelligence and ambitions. That and she was fairly attractive and not _completely_ red-headed.

This time, he wrote a new missive.

_Disregard last message. Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at nine. Bring Lily._

_-DM_

Clearing his throat, Draco said, “Come on, son. Let’s go get a drink.”

Raising a brow, Scorpius replied, “But we have a giant liquor cabinet. You should know; you bought it.”

“Um, that’s not the point. You need a, er, change of scenery. And someone to pour your drinks for you. Yes!” Grabbing Scorpius’s arm, Draco dragged him toward the fireplace. “Now, let’s go.”

“How is this going to help?” Scorpius asked as Draco chucked a handful of Floo powder into the grate. “Getting drunk hardly solves anything.”

With a snort, Draco retorted, “Then you don’t get drunk enough. Leaky Cauldron!” He stepped into the fire, dragging Scorpius along, not looking forward to the unpleasantness of a double Floo. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

When they arrived at the Cauldron, it was in an even dirtier state than usual, due to the cramped conditions, but Draco didn’t care. Checking his watch, he saw that it was still half eight, so he had plenty of time to get Scorpius buzzed enough to forget his issue with Lily before Hermione arrived with the other half of the not-so-happy couple. Maybe if both of them drank enough, then they could just have a good make-up shag and all would be well.

It didn’t take long for Scorpius to get into the spirit of drinking his worries away. As he didn’t partake in alcohol often, it took effect fairly quickly, and by five minutes to nine, he was already starting to slur his speech. Draco couldn’t help but think that, as simplistic as it was, this plan was actually going to succeed.

When the door opened at nine, Draco knew it would be Hermione with Lily, and sure enough, it was. Judging by the eye roll he received, she caught onto his plan quickly. And Lily wasn’t far behind. The moment she saw her former intended, only Hermione’s hand on her arm kept her from bolting straight out the door, and she petulantly followed her aunt to the bar.

Just loud enough for Draco and Scorpius to hear, Lily said, “What are _they_ doing here?”

Resisting the urge to throttle her for her attitude, Draco sighed. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good plan after all. And that realisation was only compounded by Scorpius’s reaction. “I keep hearing her voice, Dad.” Downing the rest of his drink, seemingly incognisant of the ladies’ presence, he added with a sniff, “I can’t live without her. I don’t care what her name is.” The sound of sobs soon permeated the air.

It made Draco want to disappear. His son was a bloody poofter, mewling like a girl! If it was possible to be more embarrassed, Draco couldn’t even contemplate it, but all he could do was pat Scorpius on the shoulder and try not to vomit. Glancing over at Hermione, he could see she was trying to get his attention. Her eyes kept diverting toward a darkened corner of the nearly empty bar, indicating that she wanted to talk to him alone.

Giving Scorpius a final reassuring pat, Draco said, “I’ll be right back. Going to pop to the loo.” Crying into his sleeve, Scorpius nodded, and Draco crept away. He saw Hermione whisper something to Lily, who looked annoyed but didn’t raise a fuss. Soon, they were across from one another yet again.

“Any news?” he asked.

“She’s really cross with him.”

Sharply jerking his thumb over his shoulder where Scorpius was ordering another double Firewhiskey, Draco hissed, “Look at him! He’s bloody miserable! Just let her feel bad for him and take him back.”

“Draco…” She shook her head. “That’s manipulation.”

“And you’ve been married _how_ long? That’s what marriage is, Granger. Manipulation and games. Just let them fix this on their own, and we can get this bloody business over with.”

“Oh, how romantic of you,” she said sarcastically. “Truly, how do you fight the women off?”

“Ha!” he retorted. “Like all of this gooey, lovey-dovey nonsense works in reality. Marriage is about making a good match while dodging all of the stupid crap and not killing each other over it.”

“What about love, Draco? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“No! Look at them! They’re in love, and they’re both miserable. How is that supposed to fix anything?”

“Like that,” she said, her eyes focused on the young couple. Curious, Draco turned to look, only to see Lily with her arms wrapped around Scorpius and kissing his forehead. Just before Draco could comment, though, their lips were practically welded to one another. It was… working.

Draco wanted to pump his fist when Scorpius’s hand roamed underneath Lily’s blouse, but he was sure that, judging by Hermione’s gasp of horror, he would be hexed in an instant. But when she started taking out her wand to separate the two, his hand covered hers. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “This is their night, so let them be.” Truthfully, he just wanted them to get married before their next big fight, but he knew better than to say so.

“But it’s not decent!” she whispered.

“Who cares? They’ll just be at it on their wedding night. What’s a day?” With a chortle, he said, “Besides, I doubt you and Weasel waited until you were married.”

Her retort was stilled in her throat as she flushed a deep scarlet. Instead, she gritted her teeth as Scorpius picked up Lily and stumbled toward the stairs after loudly commissioning a room for the night from the barman. How he managed it without breaking his hold on Lily impressed Draco. Perhaps he wasn’t such a poofter after all.

Soon, their efforts were no longer required, and Draco and Hermione were alone. The former was trying hard not to grin. “I knew it would work.”

“You mean you planned that?”

“’Course I did,” he said. “Why else would you need to bring her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a civilised conversation!”

“Bollocks! What’s more civilised than making up the old-fashioned way?” Waving his hand at the barman for another drink, he added, “Besides, I don’t see either of them complaining.”

“But they’ve both been drinking! That’s no way to start a relationship.”

“Oh, and there it is. I was wondering when you were going to start haranguing me about morality.”

“Well, if you _had_ any morals, I wouldn’t have to!”

Looking up from his drink with the express purpose of glaring at her, Draco’s breath hitched when he saw her chest heaving in anger. She really did have nice breasts, but as he’d not had enough alcohol to forget not to stare, he looked up at her face. The sight of her lips reminded him of their drunken snog in the back room of this very building, and the intense desire do it again was staggering. He had no idea what was wrong with him, but he wanted his hands all over her body.

_Stop it_ , what was left of his liquor-addled common sense screamed. _She’s married! She’s a Mudblood! She’s… Hermione Granger! Hermione…_

Before he even realised it was happening, their lips met, and it wasn’t even him that had done it. Her fingers plunged into his hair, pulling his face into even closer contact with hers. She tasted not of drink but of spearmint and something sweet, and he was starting to crave the flavour more and more. His earlier mental objections were mattering less and less, and more and more, he wanted to start exploring some more of her soft flesh.

His lips drifted to her jawline and trailed down her neck, relishing the feel of her moan vibrating through the skin of her throat. The soft planes of her shoulder were soon exposed as he slid her sleeve away from his mouth’s path. And he was only encouraged when her hands drifted to his chest.

How he managed it, he had no idea, but Draco tore himself away from her, gasping for breath, and they stared at one another. How he could do something so idiotic, he had no idea, but it had to stop before someone strolled into that _public_ place and found out.

“I’ll, um, see you tomorrow,” he muttered as he backed away, hoping like hell that he made it to the Floo before she regained her better sense and jinxed him into a puddle of slime.


	4. Hell's Bells by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor

Though he had expected all manners of disaster to spring from the hastily thrown together wedding, everything seemed to be going fairly as planned. The caterers were on time and with the programme, unlike at his own wedding that had had the benefit of almost a year of preparation. The decorations, despite being picked out by the _other_ side of the wedding party, were even a little bit tasteful. Even the musical quartet of elves, wearing mini sets of dress robes, didn’t bother him, despite being Hermione’s idea of ‘fair and equal employment’.

The happy couple was still enjoying the afterglow of their makeup session the night before, despite a slight bit of nausea on Lily’s part, which did a world of good in calming nerves all around. Even Ginny, who had only returned the day before from covering the Eastern Europe Quidditch Playoffs after a league record twenty-two hour match and four hours’ worth of travel time in the intercontinental Floo Network, was not as disturbed by the idea of her daughter marrying a Malfoy as he would have expected her to be. She even managed a nod of acknowledgment as they passed one another in the hallway of the events hall that he and Hermione had eventually decided upon.

Much more of a relief, though, was that Astoria, once inside the building, lost much of her hostility toward the wedding. She had even admitted to allowing Hermione to accost him in bed just to annoy him, not due to any desire to contribute to the nuptials. Draco had suspected as much, but he felt far more vindicated that she owned up to it at last. Despite his assumptions of disaster, everything was going remarkably as hoped save for one thing: Hermione wasn’t there.

He had to say something to her. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the kiss they’d shared the night before had been a giant fiasco and a poor decision on both their parts. When he kissed her after the wine-tasting, Draco was more willing to write that off as alcohol-induced daftness, but the previous evening had no such luxury of an excuse. He still had no idea what had possessed him, and even less of an idea of why she had kissed him back. What he did know was that, after this day, they hopefully would never be in such a compromising situation again.

As if called by his thoughts like a beacon, Draco finally saw none other than the object of his imaginings. She was stumbling out of the Floo, tugging a large box behind her while simultaneously trying to keep the fabric of her dress from being caught under her cargo’s edges. And her endeavour was not going well, either, as she stepped on a hem and found herself quickly falling on her bottom. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to hide before she saw him and took him to task for not helping her carry the box.

He decided to settle somewhere in between. Stepping back into the nearest doorway, he said loudly, “What was that?” Out of the corner of his mouth, he said in a high-pitched, mock female voice, “No idea. You should check.” Then Draco stepped back out into the hall and caught Hermione’s eye, who had undoubtedly heard his concocted conversation. Walking up to her, he picked up the box and freed her dress.

Hermione gave him a wan smile and got quickly to her feet. “Thanks,” she muttered before smoothing out the ruffled fabric with her hands.

Looking over the nondescript box, Draco asked, “What’s in there?”

She averted her eyes before mumbling, “Lily’s new dress.”

Draco’s eyes bulged. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I spent hundreds of Galleons on that piss-soaked travesty, and she’s going to wear it!”

“Her maternity Healer told her not to!” Hermione hissed. “There’s some sort of compound in the fabric that can make the baby sick, so she couldn’t wear it. I took the other dress back and told them they had to give a refund and make a new dress or no one would ever see a Weasley in that shop ever again.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “I knew you’d see it my way.” Pulling his wand from his pocket, he muttered a quick, “ _Wingardium leviosa_ ,” and manoeuvred the box to the entrance of the bride’s suite.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Hermione bent at the waist, resting her hands on her knees as if out of breath. “Just… so tired.”

“Did you spend all night at the dress shop?” Draco asked, almost in awe at her dedication.

Not looking up, Hermione said, “Someone had to, and Lily was, er, busy. We’d been going as often as we could, but it was a few days of work short unless I stayed all night.” Yawning heavily, she added nearly inaudibly, “Also, I had to explain to Ginny that her daughter was pregnant and manage to _not_ tell her where Lily was at that moment.”

She stood up straight, blinking rapidly before closing her eyes and leaning against the wall. Draco waited patiently for her to either start talking again or to flit off with the gigantic list of things that likely still needed to be done. However, she did neither, and it wasn’t until he noticed that her jaw was slack that he realised that she’d fallen asleep standing up. Tentatively, he poked her shoulder with his finger to make sure she wasn’t about to fall over, but she didn’t budge.

With a shrug, Draco left her standing there before knocking on the door of the bridal suite. “Lily!” he called. “Your dress is here.”

After a few seconds, the latch clicked, and the door opened very slowly. “Thank you,” whispered Lily, whose face was ashen.

“Are you, um, all right?” Draco asked, though he wished that he’d thought better of it before saying anything.

Shaking her head, Lily said, “I’ve been sick all morning, and I feel awful.” She fanned her face with her hand. “And bollocks, it’s hot in here.”

Not sure how he was supposed to respond, Draco offered, “Do you want me to, er, get someone?”

Lily said, “No. I just need a bit of help with the zipper is all.” Taking the box, she jogged into the corner behind the screen.

When pieces of clothing started to be flung aside, Draco darted behind the door and called inside, “Let me know when you’re decent.” Leaning against the door frame, he muttered to himself, “Fucking hell.”

He sighed, but then he remembered Hermione propped up against the wall like an old umbrella, and if she woke up on the floor, he knew she’d behead him for leaving her there. Before Lily could finish putting on her dress, he sped down the hall and awkwardly scooped Hermione up into his arms and staggered under her weight to the nearest empty room. There was a small settee, which he immediately appropriated for his cargo before running back to the bridal suite.

“Ready yet?” he hissed through the still-ajar door.

“Yeah,” she answered. “I just need to —” A crash was punctuated by a frustrated, “Shit!”

A thousand scenarios flashed through his brain as to what could’ve fallen, most of which involving several ways that his unborn grandchild could be maimed. With no further concern for decency, he barged in, only to gawk at the sight that met his eyes. Lily was holding the front of her dress up with one hand while balancing her other on the wall over a toppled table that once held a fleet of bottles and jars, which were presumably beauty products. “Are you all right?”

Kicking one of the jars in front of her, Lily said, “Yeah. Just… this stupid hem is too long, and —” Carefully backing away from the clutter, she jerked up her bodice to a more decent height and added, “Can you zip me up before I accidentally kill myself?”

Nodding stupidly, Draco did as he was told. He was definitely used to women bossing him around. First, his mother guilting him into marriage before he’d been ready; Astoria lit her bitch torch and never stopped running with it; recently, even Hermione had been silently ruling his life with her totalitarian wedding planning. But even with his limited contact with the youngest Potter, he could see why Scorpius liked her. She had accepted his son, despite all the things that had transpired between their two families, and she treated Draco as if he were just any other father of the groom. It was… nice.

After her dress was firmly secured, Draco asked something that had been niggling in his mind since he found Lily alone. “Don’t you have, er, bridesmaids or something?”

Lily’s jaw clenched. “None of my cousins would do it. They think I’m being stupid for even considering marrying Scorpius, let alone wanting them to participate.”

Draco was surprised. “Are they not coming at all?”

He could almost feel her eyeroll. “They’re coming, all right. Only because Dad and Aunt Hermione are making them. ‘It’s not PC to snub a family wedding. What would the papers think?’” she said with a sneer in her voice. “They just don’t know Scorpius like I do.”

Before he could think better of it, Draco quipped, “No doubt.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Knowing he was in dangerous territory, he directed his gaze pointedly toward her abdomen. At first, she looked at him in confusion, but then her mouth dropped in horror. Draco barely saw her hand coming at his face before it made hard, solid contact with his cheek.

“Holy hell, what was that for?” he moaned as he gingerly rubbed the enflamed skin.

“Is that how you are? Staring at my tits like I won’t even notice? You dirty old bugger!”

Scandalised, Draco stuttered, “That’s not what I —”

“I thought you were different.”

The steel laced in her voice scared him a bit. “Lily, let me explain.”

Jabbing her finger toward the door, she demanded, “Get out!”

Considering the rapid change in her pallor, from pasty to a mottled shade of rage, Draco thought it best to do as he was told. Darting out of the room, he decided to pay another visit to the room his son was occupying, half to show his support and half to plead his case before Lily had a chance to mention the incident that had just transpired. Also, if there were any nerves or tension involved, he would be looked upon to alleviate them, however misguided and disastrous any advice from Draco would end up being. Especially considering he hardly remembered ninety per cent of his own wedding due to a monstrous hangover.

Draco couldn’t get away fast enough, and without knocking, he practically flew into Scorpius’s dressing room, leading with, “I have to tell you something, and I promise it isn’t how it looks.” Then he looked up at his son sitting in the corner with his hands firmly grasping a body part that Draco could’ve gone his entire life without seeing on another bloke. Slapping his hands over his face, he turned back toward the door, but the image was quite likely welded into his brain forever.

“What the hell, Dad? I thought you were helping Lily’s aunt get things underway?”

“And I thought you were marrying the Potter girl, not your hand,” Draco snapped, still trying to erase the damaging sight of his son masturbating. “What in the name of Merlin are you doing?”

The embarrassment was ripe in Scorpius’s voice as he said, “I… I kept thinking about last night, and, well… _it_ kept popping up and I didn’t want anything, er, showing. I heard you can stop that by —”

“I get it!” Draco interrupted. “Please, in the name of all that’s good and decent, stop talking!” Trying his level best not to think about what he’d seen, he asked, “Are you nearly ready?”

“Yeah,” Scorpius replied, his voice reminiscent of his physical duress. “Just need a few minutes.”

“Good. Just make sure you’re not up to any more nonsense.” Before he could see or hear anything else awful, Draco left the room. At least he wouldn’t find Hermione playing around while there was work to be done. When he approached the settee on which he’d left her, she had shifted onto her side and curled into a ball. Fleetingly, he thought of rudely awakening her as she had done to him, but he found that he couldn’t do it. Whether it was appreciation for all that she’d done to make sure his son’s wedding was perfect or because she was simply so exhausted that it would’ve been cruel, he didn’t know. But, instead, he gently shook her shoulder and whispered, “Hermione.”

It took a little while, but she eventually murmured incoherently and sat up, her eyes still closed. “What time is it?” was the first thing she had managed to say that Draco understood

“Half ten,” he said, glancing at his watch.

Hermione nearly jolted awake. “Oh! The ceremony starts in a half hour!”

“And everything is fine,” Draco said, a bit surprised that he felt it at all necessary to alleviate her nerves. When she noticeably calmed, he added, “Both of them are all but ready; Potter and Weasel are greeting the guests. Astoria is keeping my mother from having a fit over being in a sea of blood traitors.”

He had not expected her to laugh, but she did. “I can imagine.”

But soon, a taut silence strummed between them, and they both diverted their eyes away from one another. It was back. That stupid, inexplicable phenomenon that had made her drunkenly kiss her during the wine tasting and then again at the Cauldron the previous night. Draco desperately wanted to know what it was so he could eradicate it, but for the time being, he was stuck with this obnoxious attraction to Hermione bloody Granger-Weasley. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t try to talk himself out of it.

“Granger,” he said, still not looking her way. “About last night…”

“Forget it,” she said quickly before he could properly figure out what he should’ve said. “It was an accident, nothing more.”

Nodding, Draco murmured, “Yeah. Accident. Right.” He wasn’t entirely sure, but he could swear that he felt just a little bit hurt by her denial of what had happened. He had not been averse to it, and she had seemed to feel the same. But her tone made him think that the mere idea offended her. He wasn’t offensive — at least _he_ didn’t think so.

Nonetheless, he didn’t bring up the matter again, and that would be that. He could take comfort in the fact that he wouldn’t have to see her on purpose ever again. That was fine by him. If she thought he was so bloody offensive, then she could go home and snog that ginger degenerate. Besides, his own wife was better looking and ignored him most of the time, which was a far preferable arrangement for everyone involved.

The rest of the time before the wedding seemed to crawl by. There was nothing left to be done; the guests were all seated and the minister ready, as were the bride and groom. All that was left was to sit and wait. The room in which the wedding was taking place was split down the middle, with the Potter-Weasley clan on the right and the smattering of Malfoys and Greengrasses on the left. The Minister of Magic was in attendance, sitting in the front row on the bride’s side, which Narcissa was undoubtedly bitching about with Astoria. Not to mention the overflow of the distant Weasley cousins that had migrated over to the far more sparsely populated groom’s side. He could almost feel his whole family shivering collectively in distaste.

At last, the ceremony started, which was prefaced by a long-winded speech from the presiding minister about commitment and sacrifice. It didn’t take long for Draco to tune out and just look around the room discreetly for anything of visual interest. The windows were nice: large, ornate mosaics of stained glass. And he actually liked Lily’s new gown more than the old one — mainly because it wasn’t soaked in animal urine. He would’ve been far less upset to pay as much as he did for that dress instead.

The last vestiges of a long night were starting to creep up on him, so he couldn’t even imagine how hard it would’ve been for Hermione to stay awake. He chanced a look over at her, only to find her head propped on Weasley’s shoulder for an ill-timed nap. Draco wanted badly to shake her and make sure she was awake through the whole thing, since she had put so much work into it. But he had a pretty solid premonition that, should he put so much as one finger on her anywhere in her husband’s vicinity, said husband would most certainly deposit a big, pudgy foot up Draco’s arse.

Astoria knew him far too well, unfortunately. She must have noticed his waning attention, judging by the sharp elbow in his ribs. “Pay attention,” she hissed as her teeth remained clenched in a grin. “You’re embarrassing us.”

“No one is looking,” Draco mumbled back, rubbing the sore spot on his side when she averted her eyes back toward Scorpius and Lily. From that point forward, he thought better of doing anything but staring straight ahead or saying anything, lest he find himself in more trouble.

The binding ceremony went forth without issue, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride that he was able to help do this for his son. Their happiness was not remotely in doubt, and for a moment, he even wished that he’d been able to have a relationship like that with Astoria. They got along all right, despite a rough start, but she had never looked at him like he hung the moon.

Before Draco could snap out of his trance-like state, the entire wedding party rose as the newlywed couple exited the hall. Astoria, already annoyed with his negligence, had hauled him to his feet along with her. Once he was firmly ensconced back in reality, though, he then marvelled at Scorpius. His son usually had a brisk, purposeful stride to the point where it was hardly even considered walking, but as he escorted Lily down the centre aisle, he matched her shorter, slower footfalls inch for inch. He seriously doubted that Potter or Weasel did that for their wives. Mentally, he rooted for Scorpius to show those gits how it was done.

Once the bride and groom were out of the room and headed toward the bridal suites, the rest of the wedding party followed them out the door and outside so the staff could convert the room for the reception. Though his services weren’t required, Draco scowled at the men waving wands to pack away the rows of chairs and benches and make room for tables, all at what Draco considered to be a reasonably efficient pace.

He happened to look to his right, and he was surprised to find that Hermione was doing much the same as he was, only her head was resting on the wall. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that she was sleeping whilst standing up. Glancing around to make sure anyone of import was not watching, he side-stepped to stand beside her.

“Oi!” he hissed under his breath. “Why are you in here? Everything is fine. Go take a nap before you pass out and knock yourself unconscious.”

“Have to . . . have to make sure it all goes well. Lily . . . counting on me.”

Draco could hear the yawn in her voice and rolled his eyes. “Let her mother do some of the bloody work. You must be a shit delegator in your department at work.”

However, Hermione never replied as she slumped back against the wall once more and began sliding to the floor. Groaning in annoyance, Draco hooked his hands under her arms and began to manoeuvre her toward the back of the hall, partly to keep her from injury, partly to keep her sleeping form from being an impediment to the event staff. Knowing the bride suite was taken and not wanting another disastrous run-in with his new daughter-in-law, he opted for the nearest safe haven: the men’s loo in the back.

As carefully as one could in a hurry, he propped her up against the wall and shook her arms briskly. “Come on, Granger, wake up. You’re going to kick yourself if you miss the reception.” _And I’m probably next on that list_ , Draco added mentally.

His efforts garnered a pitiful moan from Hermione, and her eyelids flickered open for a moment. However, this was fleeting; her head lolled to the side, her mouth slack, and her breathing adopted a light wheeze. Draco was running out of ideas and patience, so he resorted to the one thing that would probably work, though it could very well annoy her. With a flick of his wand, he hissed, “ _Rennervate_!”

Despite knowing what was going to happen, Draco started when Hermione promptly sat bolt upright, eyes bulged open, and inhaled as if there hadn’t been a scrap of air left in her lungs. It took her several seconds to clear the disorientation and focus her attention on him. After blinking rapidly as if to clear out the rest of her sleepy fog, he braced himself for the onslaught of ire that he could see brewing in her eyes. Draco even had time to squeeze his eyes shut before her open palm collided with his upper arm — repeatedly.

“You —” she hissed between blows, “— idiot!” With one last slap that sent shards of pain down Draco’s whole arm, Hermione added, “Don’t you know how dangerous that spell is on someone who’s not unconscious. You could’ve given me a heart attack!”

Rubbing the sore and likely reddening spot on his arm, Draco scowled. “Well, you wouldn’t bloody wake up. By some ridiculous circumstances, I’ve been left to deal with you whilst that bloated git you call a husband is probably drinking himself stupid and eating his weight in overpriced food!”

“How dare you blame this on Ron! How is it his fault that . . . that I was up all night at the dressmaker’s?”

Draco watched curiously as Hermione’s breathing grew shallow and her hands actually started to shake. Not quite sure how to react, he decided it best — and less detrimental to his safety — to slowly back away. If she was going to have a fit of rage, she could bloody well direct it somewhere else. However, he stopped in his tracks when she began to fish though her purse. He heard her mutter something that sounded suspiciously like profanity before she found what she was looking for: a small glass phial no bigger than his thumb. The contents were a dark, brownish-purple potion, which she tossed back and drank as soon as she could remove the stopper.

Feeling brave, Draco asked, “What’s that, then? Don’t tell me you’re lubricating during the daytime.” The latter had been meant as a joke, but he still earnestly wanted to know what sort of potion could give her tremors.

“It’s an anxiety potion,” she said flatly. “After I had Hugo, I had a bit of . . . difficulty adjusting. Any time I would get wound up about something, whether it was a crisis at work or burning dinner, I would have seizures. I am supposed to take this every day, but in the flurry yesterday, I forgot.”

Not sure how to respond, Draco uttered a quiet, “Oh.” He didn’t know a whole lot about medical potions, other than the fact that he paid several apothecaries good money to sell substances exactly like that one, but he had a suspicion that her overreaction to the Revival Spell was a product of that. The welt on his bicep suddenly seemed like less of an imposition.

Ignoring his comment, Hermione stuck out her tongue, her face wrinkled in distaste. “They started giving me a new generation of this potion, but it tastes so vile.” Wiping her brow, she added, “And it makes it unbearably hot _everywhere_.” To prove her point, she tugged at the collar of her dress, exposing a sizeable chunk of hitherto hidden bust line.

Gulping almost painfully, Draco’s mind was vaulted back to the night before and the passionate kiss she had planted on him. The mere memory of it was beginning to make him tingle in a pleasant way, but promising to escalate soon after. _No_ , he chided himself. _That had been a mistake, an accident_. Nonetheless, even the beads of moisture collecting at her temples were beginning to hold some form of strange appeal.

Her respiration had not turned to normal; instead, it had become deep lunges for breath. Each inflation of her chest created quite impressive cleavage and gave Draco the mad desire to bury his face into that pillowy flesh. Astoria’s were small and never touched, despite having grown marginally due to motherhood. Only that lack of stimulation could reconcile itself in Draco’s mind as he openly stared at a pair of unfriendly, _married_ breasts.

Hermione looked up and immediately recognised the focus of his attention, and Draco blanched — partly in embarrassment, partly in fear for his life. All he could do was hope she either waved it off or had enough of the potion taking effect to counter the ill will his actions would normally have garnered.

But he had never expected what happened then. Before he could so much as squeak in protest, she grabbed his lapels and smashed her lips to his. Encouraged by the lack of bodily harm, Draco let her do what she pleased, and that tingle began to crackle into a slow-burning flame.

Draco didn’t know when or how he had come to desire Hermione Granger Weasley World-Saviour, but as her lips devoured his, he bathed in its intensity. Blaise Zabini had always said that it was the quiet ones or the prudish ones who made a man’s blood boil, but that adage had never held much stock with Draco until that very moment. He definitely would’ve classified Hermione as a prude, but she was anything but that — much to his benefit at the moment, he mused smugly.

The creak of the door opening barely cut through Hermione’s guttural moans and the haze dominating Draco’s higher funtions; the voice accompanying it, however, did so unmistakably.

“Get your hands off my wife, Malfoy.”


	5. Chapter 5

In less than two seconds and far quicker than Draco could’ve possibly imagined, he and Hermione flung apart just in time for a fist to careen into his nose. Knowing the cartilage was broken, he stumbled backward, his hand under his nose to keep blood from staining his robes. Hermione was gaping at him, mouth hanging open in shock, and Ron was glaring daggers at him, practically panting in fury.

“Merlin’s crusted nosehair, Weasley!” Draco hissed, his words distorted by the blood filling his nose. Mending it quickly with his wand, he added, “If you want to punch someone, punch her. _She_ kissed _me_.”

Draco had expected Ron to scoff and dismiss his claim, but quite the opposite happened. Instead of the expected rage, Ron turned white, looking wholly like a Crup that just got kicked in the ribs. “Is . . . is that true, Hermione?” Ron asked quietly.

The firm denial that any sane person would’ve issued never came. Instead, Hermione covered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking in a manner suspiciously similar to sobbing. “I’m s-sorry,” she sniffled. “I don’t know . . . oh, this is a disaster!” When she finally deigned to look up, it was not at Draco but at her stricken husband, make-up drizzling down her cheeks. “Ron, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know why I . . . but —” Averting her gaze, she added, “— but this isn’t the, er, first time.”

“Bollocks!” growled Ron. “Just fucking bollocks!”

It was with an almost morbid fascination that Draco watched this interaction. Had this scene happened in his own marriage, there would’ve surely been a fire fight. Instead, Hermione put her hand on Ron’s arm and said gently, “I don’t even know what to say. This is all my fault.”

Ron raked his fingers down his face and kicked the nearest thing in range, which happened to be a small bench sitting along the wall. He seethed for a solid minute, during which Draco was expecting to be hexed into a pool of goo the entire time. Oddly enough, both Hermione and Ron were ignoring him entirely. If he hadn’t been so scared of what would happen if he were found out, Draco would’ve run for the door before they did take notice.

“No, Hermione, it’s mine.”

Hermione shook her head. “Don’t say that, Ron. You’ve been a wonderful husband, and you’ve given me everything I ever wanted. This is _not_ your fault.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Ron said softly. “I should’ve known this would happen, but I hoped I had kept you, er, busy enough to offset the side effects.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked in an enviably measured tone.

Ron turned a spectacular shade of red, and Draco got the feeling that he would want to cover his ears to what was about to be said. He would’ve bolted for the door, but Ron’s stance would make it exceedingly difficult. Resigned, Draco settled in for the rest of the squabble. “Well,” Ron started, only to look away and bite his lip. “Last month, when I came home with your potion, it was a different one than you normally take. New product.”

Hermione nodded, her face impassive, but Ron’s pace of storytelling left a lot to be desired; Draco wanted to strangle him to make him speak faster. That was before remembering that what was transpiring was truly none of his business, so he would simply have to take the information as it came. Why he cared, he didn’t even know. Nonetheless, he was curious, so he remained withdrawn from the conversation to _eventually_ get to an answer.

“Anyway, I went in to get a new batch, and the apothecary told me about this state-of-the-art potion that he just got in. It does the same stuff as your old potion — you know, the head stuff —” To illustrate his point, Ron gestured toward his temple and waved his fingers around in a manner more consistent to amusing a toddler. Hermione’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. Even Draco wanted to slap him.

Seeing he was on shaky ground, Ron quickly moved on. “But this new potion, er, does other stuff, too. Side benefits. It’s got extra vitamins in it, it doesn’t make you sleepy like the old one, good for the blood pressure . . .” His colouring deepened to rival that of his hair.

Unable to take the stalling anymore, Draco blurted, “For the love of Merlin’s sagging bollocks, man, spit it out!” Hermione shot him a glare that would’ve meant grievous bodily harm in any other scenario, causing Draco to cringe. It was far more shocking that Ron didn’t even seem to hear the outburst.

“And it, um, also makes one more . . . physically inclined.”

Whatever that meant, Draco wasn’t sure, but Hermione must have picked up on Ron’s cryptic comment. He could almost see her teeth grinding together in thinly veiled rage. “You mean you . . . you _drugged_ me so you could get more sex?” Without waiting for an answer, she slid her small purse from her shoulder and in one fluid motion whacked Ron in the chest with it. And then she hit him again. And again.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think you’d really notice, and, well, you’ve been a lot more _friendly_ as of late.”

No amount of scrubbing spells could undo the image that ricocheted through Draco’s head at those words. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the roll of fat at Ron’s waistline flapping up against Hermione’s —

“Fucking hell!” Draco swore loudly as he ground his palms into his eye sockets, hoping the stars it made him see would somehow cover that unholy thought. “Bugger, bugger, bugger!” But no matter how hard he tried, that beastly picture kept replaying itself in his head.

Hermione, however, was frosty. “I assure you that it will _not_ continue any time soon. When I get home, you had better not be there, or there’s no telling what I might do.” Stabbing her forefinger solidly into his chest, she added, “And I can guarantee that you won’t like it.”

Extending a tentative hand, Ron said, “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”

“Overreacting!” Hermione screeched. “You made me think I was some unfaithful harlot because you wanted a little bit more action in the bedroom! Exactly how am I overreacting?”

Draco couldn’t help but agree with her. That had been devious, even by his own standards, and he liked Hermione a lot more than he did her idiot husband. The thought shocked him a bit.

Still taking no notice of Draco’s contemplation. Ron flung his arms wide, nearly smacking Draco in the process, and cried, “I’m sorry, okay! I’m sorry! What do you want me to say, Hermione? We hadn’t had sex in months —”

At this point, Draco pressed his hands to his ears, wishing that Ron wasn’t standing so close to the door that he was blocking any feasible means of escape. If this conversation went into any more detail, he was ready to take out his wand and Stun himself.

“— and you were never around anymore. Even when you were, you sure as hell weren’t in the mood for anything. It was getting to both of us, and you know it!”

“And it never _once_ occurred to you to just talk to me instead? Your mind just went immediately to drugging me like some random bar slag?”

Hermione’s comment spurred an amusing mental image, and before he could stop himself, Draco chortled. Any hopes that it had gone unnoticed were summarily dashed when both their heads whipped toward them, completely absent of any traces of mirth.

“What the hell are you still doing here, Malfoy?” growled Ron.

“Exactly how am I supposed to leave?” snapped Draco. “Your fat arse is blocking the door!”

Barely subduing a growl, Ron grabbed Draco’s upper arm and shovelled him roughly out the door. As he stumbled and fought to keep his balance, Draco shot a murderous glare at a flock of wedding staff who were walking by. “If you want to be paid in gold and not in hexes, I suggest you keep moving.”

At his threat, while it didn’t seem to resonate particularly deeply with the group, they quickened their pace, if only to get out of eyeshot of the man paying their commission. From there, Draco straightened out his robes and headed off to find something �” anything, really — to do other than think about Weasley’s jelly roll. However, his mind was lingering on one thing.

Hermione.

It finally made sense as to why she had let him come within a mile of her, but as for his own amorous advances, he simply had no such excuse. He had kissed her the first time, and he had no idea why. Well, maybe he knew a _little_ , but he’d be damned if anyone was ever going to find out about his stupid crush during fourth year. Fucking Yule Ball and her fucking ability to not look like an electrocuted Puffskein for once in her life.

Suddenly not caring to oversee sweaty workmen or stupid servers, Draco found his way outside to the much cooler night air. To his relief, the grounds of the reception hall had a rather nice garden, which was all but deserted due to the chilly wind. But the gazebo was deserted, and the cold felt damned good after his body’s violently passionate response to the earlier snog session was cut down in its tracks.

What he did not expect to find was that someone was already there; what he had expected even less was that someone being Hermione. Who was crying.

“Bollocks,” he muttered as a wave of guilt trickled through him. Her distress was very much her husband’s fault, but had Draco been nearly as disgusted by Hermione as he had told himself, he would’ve pushed her potioned-up arse as far away as possible when things started to become awkward. And since Weasley was nowhere in sight to clean up the mess he’d made, Draco could not quite talk himself out of approaching.

He sat down on the bench next to her and sighed. “What a fiasco,” he said, cringing at the rank obviousness of the comment.

Hermione didn’t avert her gaze from what must have been an utterly fascinating support beam on the other side of the structure. “I can’t believe he did that to me.”

Frankly, Draco could believe just that after months of no sex, but for once, his better judgment kicked in before his vocal chords and he said nothing of the sort. Instead, he offered, “Well, he did it because he loves you.” The platitude burned his mouth like the piss and molasses taste of Marmite, and he had to bite his lip to keep from spitting on principle.

Hermione looked over at him and tried to smile. “I’m sorry you got pulled into all of this. You probably would be happy to never see me again.”

Draco considered her words. He tried to imagine what it would be like to never see Hermione again, and he was surprised to find that he wouldn’t have minded seeing her again at all. He thought back on all their squabbling and snapping and begrudgingly admitted that he’d found it entertaining, if not maddening. “I’ll admit it, Granger; you’re all right. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but all this was actually kind of . . . fun.”

“Really?” she said before sniffling and looking at him. Her make-up was spectacularly smeared. However, her expression soured as she crossed her arms. “You’re just saying that so I won’t tell your wife.”

Taken aback, Draco realised that he had never considered Astoria in all of this — neither her knowing or caring about anything that had happened between him and Hermione.

As she had emphatically stated on their wedding night, Astoria was not interested in him exclusively and had continued other sexual relationships for years into their marriage. Even she wasn’t capable of the level of hypocrisy necessary to condemn a little harmless groping.

With a shrug, Draco said, “Tell her, I don’t care. And neither does she. I’m just the purse she occasionally deigns to have sex with. Though in my defence, I’ve never tried to drug her.”

At his jibe, Hermione groaned in frustration before flinging herself off the bench. “Ron, why are you such an arse?” She paced back and forth. “I’ve worked hard to make our home a place where we could build a future for ourselves and our children, and all he can think about is how often we’re not having _sex_?”

“The nerve,” Draco said dryly, digging deep to keep himself from scoffing out loud. She clearly had no idea her husband had desired her despite her rampaging shrewishness from time to time. He found himself oddly sympathetic towards Weasley’s numb-skulled coital plot, and for whatever reason, he thought Hermione should know. “To think, he just wanted to be with you a little bit more.”

Shooting him a sour look, Hermione snapped, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco stood and found himself toe to toe with her. “What I mean is that you have to be some sort of frigid bitch for your marriage to dry up for that long and not even notice! You had no problem jamming your tongue down _my_ throat, so don’t get fucking cross with me because _you_ can’t keep that ginger, biscuit-gobbling, cream cheese philanderer you call a husband happy!”

Her hand rose as if to slap him, but as Draco braced for the blow he was so sure was coming, it didn’t. Instead, her hand fell to her side limply, and her chin drooped almost to her chest. “You’re right. He was just trying to . . . oh, I was so awful to him.”

Suddenly, her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head rested on his shoulder as she began sobbing anew. Draco felt something tug in his chest at the sound, and if he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn it was something resembling empathy. But that would be insane. And out of character.

They stood there like that for at least an hour — or, that was about as long as it felt to Draco’s protesting knees. It was only when he patted her back gently that she realised who she was actually with. “Oh, this is . . . Draco, I know you’re not, um . . . I’m sorry. This is really awkward.”

“No,” he lied. “It’s all right. Let’s just consider it a, um, down payment for you never, ever telling your husband that I kissed you first. After which you did, to your credit, hit me until I had a Quaffle-sized bruise.”

Hermione smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I guess I was — wait.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why _did_ you kiss me?”

Wholly wishing he had never been moronic enough to bring the incident at the wine tasting up at all, Draco shrank back. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so can’t we just forget and move on?”

“No!” she cried. “I can _not_ forget about it, because it doesn’t make sense. You hate me and always have done, so how the hell am I supposed to believe that you would do something like that and it not be something horrible?”

Draco shook his head. “It’s really not that convoluted.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “Back in fourth year, when you were dating Krum, I sort of, well, fancied you because he did. Then the Yule Ball with that get-up of yours and . . . I’m a bloke. What do you want me to say?”

His bald honesty surprised even Draco, but the look on Hermione’s face was as if she were looking at a completely different person. “Bullshit,” she said, deadpan.

“At least it’s not unicorn piss.”

For a moment, they stared at each other, but in unison, they both started to laugh until Draco wasn’t sure he could ever breathe normally again. It was several minutes before either of them recovered enough to speak.

Hermione sat down on the bench once more, and as Draco settled in next to her, she said, “Thank you. I know you probably came out here to get away from me, but you . . . you made me feel better.”

Gratitude was not what he had expected, to say the least, but it did not feel as disgusting as he might have thought. “It hasn’t been all that bad, Granger. We made it through the wedding. The kids are happy and eating a fortune’s worth of food with a room full of people who don’t like me as we speak. No, we did all right.”

“We did.”

After a while, Hermione turned to Draco and asked, “I should probably forgive him, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” he said before both of them went quiet.

They sat there like that in silence, and Draco couldn’t help but appreciate the moment. There was no chance in nine circles of hell that he would ever get to kiss her again, but he felt an urge to do so as he watched her contemplate the clear night sky. She really was pretty — at least, when she wasn’t talking.

With a tight smile and an absurd amount of reluctance, Draco patted her shoulder and headed back inside. This was certainly an experience he would never forget, but maybe with the help of time and a few bottles of Zin-fan-whatever, he could get a head start on trying just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I had inadvertently posted Chapter 4 twice instead of posting both Chapters 4 and 5. I had tried to upload the story using the links feature. Never again. Argh. Well, here's hoping you enjoy the ACTUAL Chapter 5.


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